Garbage keeps it dark with People’

In the world of the disposable pop divas, Shirley Manson is still on top of the junk heap.

It has been seven years since the scorching Scottish redhead last got us hot under the collar and she makes up for lost time on Garbage’s fifth disc, “Not Your Kind of People.”

After a short stint as a cyborg on Fox’s “Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles,” not only is she back in fine voice, Manson makes the listener fall in love — or, at least, lust — with her all over again while trashing her contemporaries who don’t know the first thing about strong will or sex appeal.

Embodying the best elements of Chrissie Hynde, Deborah Harry and Courtney Love and adding her own refreshing spin to the mix, Manson is the kind of girl your mother always warned you about. She’s the trashy-looking, tough-talkin’ bad girl who appears to be a little messed up and would be more than happy to mess you up. This sexy siren who wears her personal hang-ups on her face like heavy globs of lip gloss is backed up by studio whiz kids Steve Marker, Duke Erikson and (Nirvana’s “Nevermind” producer) Butch Vig. Together, they make Garbage. And together, Garbage trashes its alternative-pop competition.

On the leadoff track, “Automatic Systematic Habit,” Manson snaps, “I won’t be your dirty little secret,” which seems appropriate coming from a girl who always seemed to be a little on the dirty side. After an unapologetic bastardization of the bombastic opening of Cream’s “White Room,” Manson rips to shreds a two-timing, pathological liar (is there any other kind?) alongside a bouncy mix of shredding riffs, sputtering synths and rumbling drums. Pop friendly but still sounding edgy, it’s almost as if Garbage does Britney Spears here, except for the fact that Manson can sing, is emotive (rather than vapid), doesn’t need repeated bathroom breaks (as Britney apparently needs as a judge on “The X Factor”) and her producers don’t rely solely on Pro Tools but play bonafide instruments.

Manson sings about how her lover is so “mysterious” and nonsensical on the claustrophobic and off-kiltered love song, “Big Bright World.” Speaking of nonsensical, Manson’s nihilistic musings and ill-fated romanticism is head-scratching at best, but she is still alluring as ever, even when her voice is digitally manipulated and she sounds like she’s wrestling with a nasty computer virus. Then again, Manson always knew how to sell a song and her enthusiasm for the material offsets any murkiness and cloudy dark undercurrent.

Not since Goldie Hawn put on Army fatigues in “Private Benjamin” has there been such an unlikely heroine serving on the frontline as Manson on the album’s leadoff single, “Blood for Poppies.” Manson delves deep into the troubled, tired and tortured psyche of an American soldier serving in Afghanistan. Instead of standing on a soapbox, Manson examines the exhaustive routine of staying sane and staying alive. She confesses, “My brain, my body’s fried/I’ve got to stay alive/I’ve got to take a chance and keep on moving,” before revealing the only thing that is keeping her going is “I see your light from miles away.” With its melodic and sometimes maddening mix of fuzzy guitars and trippy psychedelia, “Blood for Poppies” captures the deafening silence and sheer desolation of the downtime of war, which beats the alternative, but can be as hellish and harrowing as active combat.

On the end of days ditty, “Control,” Manson forecasts humanity drowning in the burden of their repeated sins. In other words, you better bring a snorkel to December’s apocalypse. Shifting from breathy whispers to unmercifully scowl, Manson acknowledges, “I confess I lost control/I let my guard down/I let the truth out.” Going out with a bang, a metal maelstrom of crunchy power-chords, locomotive bass lines and industrial-strength drums flatters her like some divine trash compactor.

It appears that Garbage performing the James Bond theme song for “The World Is Not Enough” wasn’t enough to get 007 out of their collective system. Case in point, the title track “Not Your Kind of People,” which starts with John Barry-inspired guitars before reverting to Lady Gaga rubbish. Manson rallies against the status quo with the misfits-in-arms mantra, “We are not your kind of people/Speak a different language/We see through your lies.” While I guess it’s noble for her to say phooey to phonies and side with the freaks of the worlds (even though the only thing freakish about Manson is her uncanny sex-appeal and messy, carrot-top mop), the song’s best moments is when her dreamy, multi-voice harmonies reach a psychedelic, Beatlesque grandeur.

Having more mood swings than Sybil on a bad hair day, alpha female Manson lets her sensitive, vulnerable side take precedence over her sexy, volatile one on the pristine power-pop opus, “Felt.” Besides being a solid showcase for Manson, its trippy guitar brings to mind Smashing Pumpkins’ “Siamese Dream,” which is another stellar ’90s album that Vig produced.

Manson is truly in her element on the crunchy rocker “Battle in Me,” which showcases the singer in 100 percent, uninhibited, sex vixen mode. As the unabashed drunken party guest, Manson commands, “Let’s make out/I won’t tell your girlfriend.” It’s better not to fight it and just give in to your raging, unadulterated passions and worry about the potential repercussions and concocting a flimsy alibi the morning after.

Dedicated to her “darklings” (which is Manson’s equivalent to Lady Gaga’s “little monsters”), the closing piano ballad “Beloved Freak” is Manson’s well-intentioned but ill-conceived pandering to Garbage’s fan-base, which she perceives to have a very bad self-image. Then again, being called a “freak” can’t possibly help.

While I’m not one to advocate bad hygiene and loose morals, I prefer Manson when she whips us into submission rather than smother us in schmaltz (the latter of which she does here). If we wanted to hear a sappy, self-esteem booster we would be listening to Katy Perry singing “Fireworks” instead.